Midterm Reevaluations

24 juillet 2010 samedi

The last time I wrote expressly of the children, I had barely known them for 72 hours. Today marks the halfway point of my employment Chez les de Lannoys—27 days down, 26 to go before I return to the United States. A few notes regarding my ever-growing familiarity with ces petits monstres adorables.

Alban (still 12)
Alban is in a crisis of pre-pubescence that, for some hormonal reason, leads him to make every possible situation into a competition. Ping-pong, pool volleyball, Uno, Monopoly, flips on the trampoline, and even sickness. When his younger brother, Gauthier, came down with a throat illness a few weeks ago, Alban insisted upon asserting at least twice a meal that the last time he was sick, he was much more gravely ill than Gauthier, and he didn’t even go to the doctor. At Acrobranche, Alban chose to disregard Gauthier’s successful completion of la piste noire (the hardest high ropes course), and instead focused on the failure of his sister, Constance, to complete the course. It is, in short, an adolescent superiority complex. As of late, he doesn’t like ice cream very much, nor meat. Tomatoes are only delicious when they come from the supermarket, not the garden. He’ll eat chicken wings, but not the actual wings . . . only the drumsticks. Last week, he was fascinated by extreme body builders and smack down wrestling (he refuses to believe that it’s not real). This week, he’s been obsessed with Percy Jackson films, and he has a newfound love for the Belgian accent, following the visit of some of Eric’s (who was born in Belgium) friends from medicine school. Most of Alban’s energy as of late has been invested in perfecting his trampoline flips, and I must admit, they have significantly improved since the addition of the trampoline to the children’s palace that the house truly is. Next step . . . back flips. You can imagine my fear for his precious skull and neck . . . and my horror that something terrible should happen during the day while I’m responsible for the entertainment and protection of the children.

Constance (actually 10, but since her birthday is in September, she told me she was 11)
Constance is writing a book of animals to give as a gift to Montaine, her baby sister. Or at least she was . . . she may have lost interest when she realized the work involved. Constance likes to please people—she especially helps to set or clear the table after one of her brothers has just been reprimanded for laziness or disobedience, or when there are guests at the house. Constance is the most likely of all of the children to help me with little gifts. For example, when Cosette, the housekeeper, couldn’t come in to work because a swollen, broken toe prevented her from walking, Constance helped me make “Bon Retablissement” and “Rétablis-toi vite” cards. With Montaine, Constance immediately reverts into motherly mode. She arranges piles of pillows around Montaine’s tiny body to ensure complete safety and comfort, and she focuses all of her energy in keeping Montaine and her baby’s attention span occupied, interested, and happy. Above all, I maintain that Constance longs for female companionship. When Ambre, her best friend, is at the house, Constance is an entirely different girl. She is lively, energetic, and laughs incessantly—quite a change from the slightly perturbed attitude that she tends to adopt when she’s with her brothers.

Gauthier (9)
If I’m allowed to say it, I think Gauthier is my favorite. He truly is exceptional. He helps me set the table without me having to ask him, he takes care of his plate after he has finished eating, he sits with me at the table while I’m finishing my post-dinner yogurt long after the other children have abandoned the un-cleared table, and he reminds his siblings to clear their plates and cups after they have finished. He enforces his parents’ trampoline rules, and unlike his siblings, he is willing to compromise. In all honesty, I forget that he is 9 years old. He has a level of maturity that is not displayed in his siblings, nor in most children of his age for that matter. He adores Monopoly, and especially loves to play chess, because it is a game for two. He recognizes the potentially dangerously competitive nature of his brother, and he prefers games where Alban can’t interfere. At Acrobranche, when Constance was terrified to do la grande saute, or the Tarzan jump, he stayed with her on the treetop platform, giving her words of advice and encouragement until she worked up enough nerve to leap. Whereas Alban simply asserts his strength and superiority, Gauthier is willing to actually work to improve himself. Last week, we went on a family run around the neighborhood (Rodrigue joined on his bike). Gauthier fell behind a bit at the end (a fact that Alban constantly reminded him of afterwards), but for the next few days, he asked me every evening to go out on a run with him, making a conscious effort to improve his endurance running skills. He has a self-awareness and sense of determination that I truly admire in him.

Rodrigue (7)
Rodrigue may or may not have ADHD. He tends to repeat the expressions and actions of his siblings incessantly, without comprehension of the meaning of the words or repercussions of his behaviors. Sometimes, he’ll be inexplicably destructive—I discovered my bathroom in a disastrous state one evening, with a bucket on the floor, with piss in and around it, and Rodrigue’s shoes next to it—a signature of his infantile crime. Today at lunch, he threw the hot pad for the chicken under the trampoline and refused to go get it, simply because he apparently doesn’t like hot pads (or so he says). When he feels neglected, for example, when I’m playing Milleborne or Monopoly with the older children, he’ll tear through the game, throw the cards on the ground or in the pool, steal game pieces, and run away with them. When he feels threatened by a reprimand, he entirely shuts down, repeating “non” over and over, and will often wiggle away from punishment (if any is imposed at all), and escape. Yet when he’s in an agreeable mood, he is adorable. His current fixation is Uno—it is something that he understands and can do without too much guidance. Yesterday, while the older boys were occupied elsewhere and Constance was at Ambre’s house, I dedicated the afternoon to Rodrigue. I let him outline our schedule. In about 30 or 40 minutes, we played Uno, Milleborne, volleyball, hide and seek, freeze tag, regular tag, rearranged the courtyard furniture, and even set the table. His attention span is over in a blink, which can be exhausting. Also, he doesn’t eat meat, or vegetables, which makes satisfying his appetite and his nutritional needs extraordinarily difficult. We recently discovered that he has an enormous taste for baked potatoes, and he adores caramel flan, which, if nothing else, has calcium. I’ve been making baby steps with Rodrigue—at Acrobranche, he asked to hold my hand, and now, when I give him his packet of Uno cards, he says thank you. And sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly agreeable, he’ll apologize when he plays a +4 wild card.

Montaine (7 months)
Montaine is growing by the week. As of last week, she takes the bottle, and this week, she sits up by herself in her playpen. When she wakes up from a nap, I’ll often find her, tiny fists clutched, upright in her crib. She screams louder than any of the children, which is significant, considering the caliber of their conversations. Vanilla Haagen Daas ice cream, which she loves almost as much as her dad does, tends to calm her down. She still doesn't like peas, but zucchini is a success. And she settles down when I sing Regina, which makes me happy on many, many levels.

Sois Heureuse

18 juillet 2010 dimanche

I was happy again last night. Macbett, Eugène Ionesco’s absurd, grotesque, tragicomedic defiance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth had just come to its unsettling, yet perfectly appropriate end. It was 9:30, evening spectacles spattered across the city were coming to an end, and from invisible theaters hidden behind walls of stone and posters, faint cheering could be heard. Another curtain falling, another evening’s success.

It was refreshingly cool, if not chilly after another burning summer day in the south of France. The street was sparsely populated with pedestrians, and the couples clutching each other’s arms spoke softly in whispers as they made their way down the sidewalks, as though in reverence to the falling dusk. I was feeling confident, literary, and lovely, and I let the wind wrap around me like a lover who knows all of my curves and my crevices.

Walking down the sidewalk, I contemplated feeling lonely. I thought of the deep, black expanse of the Atlantic, yawning between my friends and family and me, of the bronzing wheat fields of Ohio, of the waving stalks of sweet corn pushing tassels and saluting the hazy afternoon sky while night was already imminent in France. I had no lover, no partner with which I could saunter down the street arm in arm, or watch the sunset as the sun dipped into the Rhône, or sip a glass of wine and discuss lofty, intellectual subjects. No one would kiss me good night, and I would sleep alone in a bed big enough for two.

Blinking in the imposing darkness, trying to assure oneself of existence with the simple affirmation of sight, it is easy to feel alone, lonely, melancholy. But last night wasn’t a night for disparaging sentiments. The street smelled like lavender and Provençal spices, and when I turned the corner, the great ferris wheel emerged from behind the ramparts, gleaming in metallic shades of white gold and silver as the sun coquettishly donned its colors to the west. No, melancholy had no place in an evening such as this.

Happiness cannot be held and kept like sorrow can, which like a heavy stone wears holes in our pockets as soon as we pick it up. Happiness slips through our fingers as we cup it to our parched lips to drink. And that, perhaps, is the most painful of all: watching happiness slither away. A half-melted ice cream cone splattered on the sidewalk. A brightly colored balloon stuck in the highest branches of a tree. We’re left with sticky fingers and outstretched hands, and we can do nothing but remember. And in that remembering, smile.

Anecdotal

16 juillet 2010 jeudi

Adventures with Courgette
• On the opening day of the festival, Eric and Sylvaine asked that I take the kids into town to watch the parade. I was delighted to do so, of course, except for the small matter of parking, which I find difficult in any country, with any car, manual or automatic. Imagine my horror when not ONE parking space was open in the parking lots surrounding the ramparts. With Alban and Constance sweating in the backseat and my nerves quickly fraying, I did something I never thought I’d do: I parked on a sidewalk. Yes, Shawna, I was one of the crazy people that turned the Avignon Trottoir into my own personal parking lot. I do not regret it. It just makes me all the more French for having done it.
• When I learned to drive in the United States, I learned roads by getting lost on them. Why should it be any different in France? After an evening out with Thomas in Avignon, I attempted to head back to Montfavet. I was completely sober, mind you (as the operation of a motor vehicle requires), but this did not stop me from mistakenly thinking that I could get back to my house on Rue de Montfavet. In short, a series of unfortunate turns happened, and I found myself whisked away in the direction of Orange—the last place I could possibly want to be on earth. And, to top it all off, my cell phone had about a 1,6€ of credit left: enough for 1 text, or about 3 minutes of calls. At about two in the morning, I managed to get myself turned back around in the right direction by following every sign that spoke of Avignon, and by doing so, hoping to run into the ramparts that surround the city. Finally, success, after an hour of absolute horror. I picked up a map at the office of tourism the next day, just in case, to keep in the glove compartment.
• Due to the horrific parking situation in Avignon during festival season, Eric and Sylvaine suggested that I park in the garage next to le palais des papes, right down town. It costs a bit, but it’s better than circling the ramparts in 95 degree heat, searching for a parking spot like a vulture. What I was not prepared for was the steep, spiraling hill at the garage entrance that Eric and Sylvaine had failed to mention. I overestimated Courgette’s ability to climb hills, and mistakenly put her in second gear, thinking that she would have enough power to make it to the top. I stalled about 80% of the way up the hill. Although there had been no one behind me as I embarked upon the hill, in true form to Murphy’s Law, three impatient cars zoomed up behind me as soon as I stalled. It. Was. Horrific. Eventually a nice (and probably irritated) French man came up and helped me get Courgette to the top of the hill. I vowed to never park there again (or, at least not before I do some serious hill practice).

Life as a Mihuta
• My grandpa Mihuta is the kind of person who will go up to a person on the street, strike up a conversation, and in a good fifteen minutes, will end up with a life-long friend, an offer for dinner, and an open invitation for a place to stay. My mama Mihuta takes after her dad; in fact, one of her hobbies is finding couples where the husband is taking a picture of the wife, or vice versa, and asking if she can take a picture for them both. I’ve found that I’ve developed as a Mihuta true to form; one of my new favorite things to do is to spot lost Americans, and help them out. Of course, if they try to order without even trying to speak in French, or insult/ignore tourist etiquette, or are wearing Michigan colors (that’s for you, Benny), I won’t always go out of my way to help them. But if I find a nice family of four, standing perplexed under the palais des papes, or an elderly couple speaking asking for directions in broken French, I spring into American-in-Avignon rescue mode. I was having a solitary dinner at Croque au Pain the other day, taking a break from my festival-going, when I heard what could only be a North American accent speaking French. A lone woman, about 28 or 30 had just walked in, and had pretty successfully ordered a Lyonnais salad with olive oil dressing. I was curious, and so I asked if she was American. It turns out that Jen was Canadian, and was on her way back to Canada after having lived in Australia for the last 10 years with a boyfriend. They had broken up a few months back, and so Jen had decided to press the reset button on her life, and do something a little crazy before trying to reestablish life in her homeland—travel for three months around Europe before returning to Canada to go to teacher school. It was a lovely conversation—she came and sat at the table next to mine, and we chatted for at least a half an hour before we went on our separate ways. Mihuta blood, you’ve done me well.

Montaine’s Mama
• About 36 hours before I was entrusted with all five children for an evening as Eric and Sylvaine went into Avignon to celebrate their good friend’s birthday, Montaine (the 7 month old) learned how to say maman. It was the first time since her birth that Eric and Sylvaine had entrusted Montaine to the care of someone else for an evening—the pressure was on. All was well for a while—Montaine was content in her playpen, Constance was at a friend’s house for the night, and the boys were playing Uno outside. And then the wailing started, and the heart wrenching sound of a red-faced baby appealing for her mamamamamaman over and over again, a pitiful mantra. I tried to put her down—she screamed even louder. I changed her diaper. I gave her toys. I tried to give her a bottle of her mother’s breast milk. I sang Regina Spektor songs. This latter technique seemed to work, surprisingly (thanks, Regina), but I couldn’t get Montaine to sleep. In desperation, I sent the boys to the library to watch Star Wars, and I took Montaine out to the garden. Softly singing, we circled the garden, said hello to the horse and the donkey and the dog and the cat and the stars. She fell asleep in my arms. Oh what a relief is a sleeping baby.

Don't Look Down

15 juillet 2010 jeudi

A few crucial words for when one is attached to a rope, 20–25 feet above the ground:

1: PASSERELLES DES CIMES = Treetop Pathways
Today, the Delannoy family treated the children to a trip to Acrobranche, a high ropes course nestled in the quaintly Provençal Luberon valley, near Fontaine de Vaucluse. Acrobranche has 6 treetop courses of varying difficulty, and I must say, I myself was challenged. As my parents can testify, I’ve been a fanatic of heights from a very young age. My mother had to rush out of the house with a laundry basket full of pillows when she found me hanging from my knees from the top of our story-and-a-half tall swing set. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, and hadn’t quite developed a sense of practical danger yet. As a child, I would walk the perimeter of our barn on the rafters, and even now, if you give me a boulder big enough, I will probably climb it. However, the high ropes courses at Acrobranche still gave me a thrill and got adrenaline pumping though my veins.

2: UN MOUSQUETON = Climbing Caribbeaner
One thing that is refreshing about Europe is that business liability seems to be much more lax than in the United States. Before being let loose like monkeys out of their cages, we had no papers to sign, no fitness tests to pass, no security deposits to pay. A short, required “training” session taught all visitors how to properly secure the two caribbeaners attached to our belts, and how to safely attach ourselves to a zipline. Thus “trained,” off we went. Of course, if all security measures were correctly followed, there was no real danger, and staff members surveyed the course from the ground, but it’s nice to be trusted with one’s own common sense and inherent ability to detect when one is truly in danger.

3: UNE ECHELLE A BRAS = Rope Ladder
To start off easily, we began our parcours on la piste verte—the green course. It served mostly to get land lubbers accustomed to being off the ground, and to practice walking across hanging rope ladders, or slack wires, or dangling logs. Although it was the beginners’ course, I must say, climbing backwards through a suspended barrel and then balancing on a treetop platform is certainly no walk in the park.

4: UNE TYROLIENNE = Zip Line
Travel by zip line should be established in mass. I can just see it now: businessmen in suits and leather gloves, grasping a zip line with one hand and a briefcase with the other, zipping across the open spaces between skyscrapers, sliding into an open window just in time for the 2:00 meeting across the way. After ascending une echelle à bras made of rope and logs to a platform about 30 feet up in a tree, I started the parcours aux tyroliennes. There’s something primordially satisfying about whooshing through treetops, suspended on a wire. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane.

5: ACCROCHE-TOI! = Hang on!
La liane à Tarzan (Tarzan Swing), located at the highest point of la piste rouge, the second most difficult course, briefly made my heart stop. I kid you not. After climbing up une echelle à bras, scuttling across a vertically suspended rope net, swinging across un pont de singes (monkey bars) at least twenty feet above the ground, and making my way across a slack wire, I finally found myself on a platform in a tree. Across a clearing at least 15 wide, was a giant spider web made of thick rope. Mousquetons securely attached, I was given a rope, and told to jump. Yes, jump. Across the clearing and onto the spider web that certainly wouldn’t do the catching for me. Standing on the platform, I thought of my brother Ben, and his bungee jumping adventures, and my Dad, and his experiences leaping out of airplanes, and I refused to be shown up by the Grimm men. Trois, deux, UN, came the voices of the staff members and the Delannoy family watching below . . . and I leapt. And, contrary to my the little voice inside that tells most reasonable people that jumping off of high places is a bad idea, I survived, feeling quite like a fly once I made it across the clearing to the spider web of rope on the other side.

But wait, there’s more. Alban was absolutely determined to do la piste noire, the most difficult course at Acrobranche. Gauthier came along, not to be shown up by his big brother. The boys beseeched that I join. This time, once reaching the highest platform, we were told to leap across a 10 foot clearing . . . sans rope. What, no rope? This time, I jumped at about deux et demi (two and a half), knowing that if I waited any longer I would realize the absurdity of jumping across a clearing without a rope. Of course, I was safely attached to a security wire with my two mousquetons, but hey, a human being who spends most of her time on the ground, and not in trees, is allowed to be a bit skeptical. Hesitation does absolutely nothing for skepticism in this case. Off I went.

6: UN BLEU = Bruise
By the look of my legs and forearms, one would suspect that I am violently maltreated in the Delannoy household. There is une bosse sanglante (bloody bump) on my forehead from where I fwapped myself with un mousqueton, and on la piste noire I turned my arms into sand paper, leaving thick wire-shaped scrapes in parallel red lines across my forearms and wrists from when I mistakenly used the security wire to balance myself on a parcours of logs dangling from stretchy, supple ropes. Upon arriving home, I discovered that my legs are a battlefield of bruises. And yet, I must thank the Delannoys full heartedly for my bruises, and scrapes, and scratches. It’s good to be a kid sometimes. Thank goodness I’m not afraid of heights.

Vous me manquez

14 juillet 2010 mercredi (Happy Bastille Day!)

When Eric asked me this morning whether I was happy, I responded with a resounding “OUI!” Then, he asked if there was anything in particular that I missed from back home, excepting my friends and family, of course. I utterly blanked. I’ve been thinking about it all day, between games of pool volleyball, Uno, and chess. If living two lives—a French life, and an American counterpart—has taught me anything, it’s that as soon as I leave one home, it is extremely difficult to articulate exactly what I love about it, or miss, and why. Certainly I miss something about the United States, but when pressed for an answer this morning, I found that I simply couldn’t express myself. I’ve resolved to try.

***

I miss enormous, refillable mugs of coffee from Donkey, and blueberry streusel muffins that have just come out of the oven. And chai tea. Huge, steaming mugs of swirling, creamy chai tea, delicately frothy and perfectly spicy and sweet.

I miss Chinese take out, and Good Fella’s pizza, and Wendy’s frosties and fries in the middle of the night. And DP Dough. And all food that can be ordered over the phone, any day, at any hour.

I miss my walk to work, out of Squat, down the hill by Clip, through Emereti Park, past Peden stadium, under the bridge by the on the bike path, across the highway over the river, and up to the Ridges on the path through the woods. And the view coming out of OU Press, looking over the Hocking River and to the Ohio University campus on the bank, and Athens stretching out beyond.

I miss Sunday runs at Stroud’s Run—hot, 2 hour affairs where we circumference the entire lake on a path through the forest. And the talks we always have between steady footsteps and deep breathing, and the energy beans that Jesse always carries on long runs.

I miss my 14’x18’ box in Squat, ironically enough, with its wall of photographs, and its sticky notes, and its borrowed lounge chair, and its soft lamp lighting, and its reliable internet, and its bottomless pot of coffee, and its view of Morton Hill and the tops of the buildings on East Green and South Green beyond. And I miss Mary, and her rants about the corn industry and food corporations and government corruption and university financial and administrational affairs. And our multilingual conversational exchanges, when one of us forgets a word in any one of the four languages that we collectively speak.

I miss Franklin, my blue 1999 Nissan Altima, and the drive from my house into Dalton, winding down through the valley and across the train tracks at Sonnenburg Station, then climbing back up the other side. And I miss the fog that creeps in the crevices of the valley on humid mornings, and the floods that turn the fields into lakes, and the view of the sunset to the west from the summit of the hill on Wenger Road, before plunging back down into Dalton.

I miss peanut butter, and English measurements (cups, tablespoons, teaspoons), and the Fahrenheit scale. And I miss bulk food stores with endless stocks of flour, and sugar, and oats, and cocoa, and nuts, and everything a baking fanatic could possibly want to make a mid-afternoon snack for five children.

I miss the smell of sweet corn fields in the morning, fresh with dew, and the soft sizzle of morning haze lifting with the rising sun. And granola bar breaks, and iced tea, and field songs, and, believe it or not, counting to sixteen and a half for 6 hours a day, standing on a wagon with sacks of corn up to my waist.

I miss staying up until four in the morning with good friends, making trouble and roaming the town. And Sunday morning brunch, recapping the events of the weekend, and preparing for the upcoming week. (I do not miss dining hall food, however. Thank god that’s done with.)

I miss putting the final period on the final sentence of a final paper, or turning the last page of a novel of epic proportions. And the satisfaction of an essay well written, an argument well defended, a project well presented.

I miss sitting at coffee shops for hours on end, talking about life and love and the universe or nothing in particular. And breakfast at the Bliss (R.I.P) or Mugswigs runs at absurd hours in the evening for thick, rich double chocolate mochas, making it impossible to sleep.

I miss wandering in the middle of the night with Adam, to obscure locations to watch meteor showers, or strangers’ rooftops to sit and commiserate, or the backyards of frat parties to pretend we know “Todd,” or “Brad,” or “Rob.” And Capitol Hill and the Rachel-Stephanie-Rachel sandwich. And inevitable debauchery with my Frenchies and the rainbow crowd.

I miss watching Das Dutch Kitchen wake up and come to life to the smell of freshly baked bread after having been there for hours, knuckles deep in rising dough. And the pleasure of finding a clean apron, or oven mitts without holes, or newly purchased sprinkles for sugar cookies, or just-whipped batches of smooth vanilla icing.

I miss spending time in the kitchen with my mom, peeling beets until our hands are blood-red, or chopping fresh strawberries until our fingers are wrinkled, or squeezing out grape juice until the air smells intoxicatingly sweet and humidity drips down our faces and onto our aprons. And I miss saying goodnight to the night with my dad, or sitting out by the campfire until only ashes remain.

I miss hearing the crack of a bat from summer league baseball games at Kidron park, and the slightly out of tune sound of the marching band playing the alma mater and fight song at Dalton football games, and the breathless encouragement of Augs at cross country runners as they pant on by, and the unmistakable thud of a pole sliding into the box as a polevaulter launches off the runway. And Gatorade, and the unmistakable taste of Nussbaum Road well water.

I miss time alone with only Regina Spektor and my favorite piano in Glidden, forgetting that I have a paper due in 12 hours, or a novel to read by the next day, or a presentation to research and prepare by the end of the week. And the trailing voice of an acoustic guitar, teasing out of an open window as I run by in the evening.

I miss the constellations of summer, puncturing the velvety, cloudless sky with studded diamonds, telling stories across the night sky. And lying flat on my back, listening to crickets and the wind whispering through blades of grass. And catching the lightening bugs that respond to the blinking of the stars.

I miss my cats: Jack, and Lucy, and Smudge (also, R.I.P), and the unconditional love of a domestic animal for She Who Brings the Food. And the braying of Glen’s animals down in the valley, the crowing of the rooster at the first hint of dawn, or the tinkling of bells around cows’ necks as they meander through meadows on the way back to the barn at night.

***
In thirty-six days, I return to the United States. I’ve been in France for thirty-five days. I am not ready to go home. I am not ready for July to be halfway done. I am not ready to face the huge expanses of vast America. I am not ready to drive amongst the car-giants of gas-guzzling ignorance, on roads wide and spacious. I am not ready to choose between twenty brands of chips (or potato crisps, or pretzels), or thirty flavors of ice cream (let alone frozen yogurt and sherbet), or seven shampoo types (straight, curly, greasy, dry, damaged, colored, and last but not least, normal hair). I am not ready to feel dwarfed in parking lots, in waiting rooms, in clothing stores. I am not ready to speak in my native tongue, to hear English on the radio, to be bombarded with all the words I grew up with, and expressions that simply don’t translate into French.

And yet America lies in wait on the other side of the Atlantic. Waves and oil pound at its shores, and the currents of the ocean and time sweep me towards it. I can do nothing to stop this (neither can BP).

I returned to the United States last year on June 23, 2009, after learning on June 19 that my visa extension had been denied, thereby cutting my planned trip short by nearly two months. My return was marked by tears, bitter depression, and a brief expatriate adventure to Canada. I was saved from utter desperation by the legal drinking age in the land up north of moose and hockey, and sweet corn season.

When I think of the United States, I am tempted to immediately fixate on the negatives: the devastating ecological disaster that is destroying the Gulf environment and economy at large; the corruption of private corporations and government alike; the fatal ignorance of the American populace that kills without ever being counted by statistics; the precarious and staggering social security system; the political stalemate in Washington; the mindset of American exceptionalism; the unjust wars abroad, and the silent, internal wars that ravage racially demarcated neighborhoods that barely make the evening news. But I cannot think of the United States as the land of the stolen frontier if I hope to maintain my sanity upon my return. I must instead remember that deep in the crevices of my motherland hide pockets of sunshine that I can see shining from way over here, thousands of miles away, in France. Sure, in thirty-six days, I’ll be leaving my new home, Chez les Delannoys, in Montfavet, France. But who can say anymore when exactly I’m leaving home, and when I’m going home? This is how it works, after all.

I end on a purely Regina note, with lyrics from “On the Radio,” a song that never fails to make me feel better:

“This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath—
Now this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope you don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You’ll just do it all again . . . ”

Bonne nuit, tout le monde. Vous me manuez.

C'est Pour la Petite Bourgeoisie Qui Boit du Champagne

8 juillet 2010 jeudi

To the Delannoy Parents:

We are of the same flesh, you and I, but we are not of the same mind. We belong on opposite sides of the counter, of the fence, of the camera. You are the ones who eat 26€ fish at le palais des papes, I am the one that sprinkles cocoa on your tiramisu. You are the ones that coyly throw 50 centime pieces that drop with hollow thumps into open guitar cases, I am the one who sits on street corners and sings songs in a language you don’t understand. You are the ones who serve steaming croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast, still hot from the oven, and I am the one who rises at 5 to bake your daily bread.

It is often said that my world exists solely to serve yours, although I cannot agree. It is simply that our worlds only seem to jostle up against one another when we go to work, and you go to be fed, or entertained, or served. You are the question askers, we are the answer givers. You are the hungry, we are the food providers. What would you do without us?

Although our worlds may jockey and collide whilst we wear our aprons and you wear your jewels, our spheres of recreation spin off in separate directions in the night. Under the stars, you glisten in your diamonds, floating constellations on earth that vanish when the lights snuff out. And we, in that darkness that you leave behind, open up, crack a beer, throw our heads back, and laugh, laugh, laugh.

I have something that you have not, and it is certainly not money. Upon arriving in your 300 year old home, I was astonished by the way that you live. It wasn’t simply the high vaulted ceilings, the chandeliers, the in ground pool in a courtyard of its own, the private gate, the barn, the donkey, and the horse, goddamnit. It was your laundry room, your pantry, and, above all, your refrigerator.

When I cleaned out the freezer today, I found rabbit. Rabbit? You have four jars of Nutella in reserve in the pantry. When there was “nothing to eat” for lunch one day, Cosette pulled fillet mignon out of the second freezer. At all times there are three types of yogurt in the refrigerator (Yoplait fruit, Activia, and Bio yogurt for Montaine), as well as caramel flan and chocolat liégois. You have more pots and pans than you will ever use, and more table settings than people you will ever need to serve. And although you buy bio—to save the planet, as you quaintly put it—you live anything but “bio.”

Sure, you recycle, but have you seen your laundry room, and the sheer amount of loads of laundry you do in a week? Or the three refrigerators/freezers you have stock piled and plugged in at all times? Or the enormous television that the children so often refuse to turn off? Or the pool, that is at times up to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit)? Or the three dishwasher cycles it takes daily to take care of the ever-growing pile of plates on your counter?

When I make coffee in the morning (before I eat a lovely breakfast of Bio Cereal and an Organic Nectarine and Ecofriendly Multifruit Juice), I use a small, gold-coated single-serving capsule made specifically for your machine. At Ohio University, in my shared 14’x18’ box, Mary and I brew coffee that she steals weekly from the dining hall, which is stored in a used can. Forget culture shock—it is class disparity that makes me wake in the morning in awe and in stupor of the life that I lead here.

I spend my days with your children—your five lovely little beasties that barely say thank you and leave Nutella on the newly purchased chairs after the 4pm snack. They are quite difficult to interest, you know. They are over-stimulated by television, personal laptops, Wii, and constant attention . . . I can’t imagine sitting down for a whole hour with them to do one of my Grandpa Mihuta’s art lessons. Art, as tempting as it sounds for children, has no crashes, booms, explosions, prizes, or cash rewards. And that is what your children expect me to provide, as though I keep excitement in pill form in my pocket.

Constance is writing a book—a children’s book of animals to give to Montaine. But what she doesn’t understand is the utter delight that an author takes in putting pen to paper. She is writing it, in part, due to your promise to give her a few dollars upon its completion towards her cell phone fund (I remind you that Constance is 11 years old). I am convinced that at some point in their lives, all artists must live in a box—be it cardboard or dorm room sized. What distinguishes an artist from a clever and creative businessman is that an artist can not simply tolerate a box, but also appreciate it, appropriate it, and turn it into something beautiful in and of itself—a work of art in box-form.

While wandering this evening in la place de l’horloge, I stumbled upon a traveling folk band playing on worn instruments with sparse amps in front of l’opéra. They were surprisingly good, to tell the truth; they reminded me of some of my friends from back home in Athens, playing house shows in backyards to drunken crowds. At one point while I was watching, the string bass player bent down and placed his ear just next to the neck of his weathered instrument, and listened. He closed his eyes and nodded his head as though he were giving silent approval, and smiled. The band probably won’t make an exorbitant amount of money tonight, despite the festival crowds—probably just enough to get back home, eat a filling dinner, buy some good beer, and enjoy the night . . . but they will be content. I recognized the emotion that flickered across the string bass player’s face. I too know the feeling of honing in on a harmony, and knowing that it is good. And that is what happiness feels like—bliss, joy, peace, and a good bass line.

Today, you bought a miniature trampoline, a full sized trampoline, inflatable volleyball net for the pool, and a floating scooter for Montaine. The children were delighted, and will most likely remain so for a few days—hopefully through the weekend and on to Monday or Tuesday if we’re lucky. But soon they will want more. Always. More. Ad nauseum. Gaspillage. Why isn’t it bigger, daddy? Why won’t it float anymore, papa? Who will play with me, mama? Can we go to the festival, Rachel?

The house is supercharged, bursting at the seams, bloated: a pool, a Wii, a playstation, a television, laptops, games, animals, food, and now even a trampoline. It is any child’s paradise. But the children are not content. Far from it. They are itchy, they are restless. They ache for the outdoors—an outdoors that lies beyond the pool, the courtyard, the garden, and the gate.

I have something that you have not: EXPERIENCE. Will your children remember specific days in the pool, with the new air mattress that you bought them last week, or the trampoline, or the inflatable volleyball net? Or will they simply melt into an indiscernible blur of summer haze, punctuated by Montaine’s screaming and the knocking of the Mistral at shutters and doors?

I am grateful for what I have, for what I have is invaluable. You can’t poke holes in it, you can’t drain it, you can’t stain it, and the Mistral won’t blow it away. Although my financial prosperity is dwarfed by the size of your estate, I have memories. I remember specific days of my childhood, over a decade ago. I have seen the corners of my country, and of yours. I have swum in two oceans and a sea, I have crossed the Atlantic three times, and I am not afraid to travel alone. And I am here, in France, happy, alive, and grateful, even if my monthly stipend is less than your weekly grocery bill.

Pardon

5 juillet 2010 lundi

To my parents, givers of life and food and Band-Aids, I full heartedly apologize for the following:

• Insulting your cooking, regardless of the time you spent preparing the meal.
• Refusing to put my dishes in the dishwasher, even though it was right next to the sink, where I habitually left plates, cups, bowls, and silverware.
• Putting empty containers of milk, ice cream, and juice back in the refrigerator.
• Forgetting the ice cream on the counter until a sticky liquid oozed out of the bottom of the container, and coagulated on the counter in a creamy film.
• Claiming the precedence of cartoons over family meals.
• Shedding articles of clothing/toys/towels on the ground, like a deciduous tree in October.
• Blaming my brother for misdeeds that I clearly committed.
• Adding salt and pepper to food before even tasting it.
• Imposing upon your few spared moments alone, and barging into rooms without knocking.
• Leaving drawers and doors open, and lights on, and water running.
• Grumbling about boredom, while making no effort to remedy it.
• Spending innumerable hours in front of the television, slowly killing my attention span.
• Cheating in Uno, solitaire, poker—which I’m sure you were aware of, although you let it slide countless times.
• Spitting out half chewed vegetables, or faking gagging while choking down zucchinis, tomatoes, peppers, or other veggie yummies.
• Chowing down on a meal before everyone had been served.
• Completely ignoring requests to help clear or set the table, put away the groceries, or pick up my things.
• Claiming fullness, then suddenly desiring dessert.
• Accusing you of parental negligence for my lack of video game station (Playstation, Gameboy, Wii, etc).
• Playing music loudly while you were trying to watch the news in the living room.
• Demanding incessantly when dinner would be served, without making an effort to help prepare the meal.
• Sulking when you refused a whimsical request of mine.
• Pushing food around on my plate in an attempt to make it appear as though I’d eaten more than I really had.
• Lying about how much television I’d watched in a day.
• Screaming, crying, yelping, howling, or just plain making senseless noise for no apparent reason, and thereby completely preventing silence.
• Misunderstanding the cost of eating, driving, drinking, playing, and living.
• Believing that “no” could somehow transform in to “yes” if I asked the same question enough times.
• Inflicting unsolicited pain upon my brother.
• Whining about having nothing to eat, when the refrigerator was clearly full.
• Spilling flour, juice, chocolate, or milk on the floor, leaving it there, then complaining upon finding chocolate on my socks.
• Dropping more breadcrumbs than Hansel and Gretel.
• Not thanking you nearly enough for all you did for Ben and me, nor telling you I loved you often enough.

Alban, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrigue—take note. In 8 (or 9, 11, or 13) years, when you’re all 20 years old, I beseech you: thank your parents. They work hard for you. And so do I. But I suppose gratitude grows in puberty like everything else. And for now, it’s up to me to watch you grow into your bodies and personalities and brains, and make the same mistakes that I made when I was your age.

Prince Charming

30 juin 2010 dimanche

I haven’t a clue why every nearly girl under the age of 9 dreams of becoming Cinderella—being Cinderalla must have been hard work, damn it. Sure, she got the guy, the castle, the fairy godmother, the carriage, the glass slippers . . . but forget not the rags that Cinderella shed in donning her glorious ball gown. Why is it that so many young girls can completely forget the fact that Cinderella lived in a forsaken attic for a large portion of her childhood, talking to mice? I haven’t a clue.

I had a Cinderella moment earlier today, while climbing over the bumper of my “new” Suzuki Samurai so I could clean bird poop off of the hood. After working a 9 hour day (9h00–18h00) with my 6 lovelies (Alban, Virgil, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrique, and Montaine), I set about cleaning my car while it was still light outside, and the kids were watching Alvin and the Chipmunks (in French) after dinner. Today was my third day of work with the Delannoys, and it was comparable to Monday and Tuesday. No strangling today and less fights over Uno rules, but Montaine would not eat her yogurt this morning, and although she yawned and rubbed her eyes while I was giving her a little stroller promenade in the garden, she absolutely refused to take a nap before lunch. The result was lots of tears and bloodcurdling baby screams. Other than one threatened revoked dessert (due to Rodrigue’s rampant silverware throwing at dinner), it was a normal day.

So after the dishes were cleared and the kids were contentedly installed in the library, I set off with a bucket and soap and rags to tackle my Jeep, which has been sitting in a barn under a pigeon nest collecting straw and leaves and newspapers and bird poop and spider webs for approximately a year. The task was daunting, and I can’t yet claim that it’s finished. Bird poop has been scrubbed away, seats and dashboard and glove compartment and windows have been wiped down thoroughly, and old newspapers and grocery lists have been disposed of, but the floor remains covered with a fine carpeting of dried leaves, too crumbled to pick up by hand.

I have named her (yes, my Jeep is female) “Courgette”—a fancy sounding French word that actually means zucchini, after her peculiar vegetable color. Courgette is my proof that life for Cinderella certainly wouldn’t have it’s fairy tale appeal if she hadn’t had a fairy godmother to turn her pumpkins into a carriage and her mice into horses and coachmen. While clambering over my Jeep to reach into the deepest, dustiest crevices behind the spare tire, I made friends with the cat (Anakin, named after the Star Wars character, of course) and the dog (Tara, who likes to jump in the pool, then run into the laundry room), the donkey, and the horse, as they all watched me labor. I understand why Cinderella cherished her mice—while the adults were in the courtyard enjoying red wine and cheese on the patio couch by the pool with family friends, animals can be welcome company. You can talk to them in any language, and they won’t mock nor respond, except perhaps with a loving whinny, or a curious meow.

But here I am again, making fairy tales out of everyday life. I suppose that’s what I need to do, when Rodrigue won’t eat chicken, and Gauthier won’t touch green beans, and Constance complains over mashed potatoes. I have to remind myself of the chance I’ve been given to be here in France, spending my summer chasing down blown away pool noodles and wet children with towels. Hell, my room is certainly no attic, and have you SEEN my canopied bed? Granted, the canopy is actually a mosquito net to prevent midnight mutinies by those goddamned bloodthirsty beasties, but I can pretend otherwise. Courgette, in all of her vegetable hued glory, will by my Corvette. And my Prince Charming is 9 years old—Gauthier, who came to the rescue with a vacuum cleaner.